


Five times John Watson's last words were "Please, God, let me live."

by lokiloo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: +1, 5 Things, Beating, Character Study, Child Abuse, Gen, Triggers, War violence, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiloo/pseuds/lokiloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your last few seconds what would you say?”<br/>“Please, God, let me live.”<br/>“Oh, use your imagination!”<br/>“I don't have to.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times John Watson's last words were "Please, God, let me live."

Harry holds his hand tight, both of them scrunched under the guest bathroom sink. The pipe is digging into John’s back, and the smell of bathroom cleaner threatens to choke them both. They’re trying not to breath, trying as hard as they can not to make a sound.

The heavy thump, thump, thump of their father’s footsteps echo. 

John lets out a tiny whimper, as Harry slams her other hand across his mouth. She’s crying, and her eyes are pleading and wide.

“Where are you?! Where are you fuckin’ brats?!”

The stomps are getting closer. Louder. He’s made his way up the stairs.

John sobs into his sister’s hand. Snot and tears run down their faces, red and runny, and both curl into each other.

A bottle smashes against a wall. Curses fill the air. Then threats. Then promises.

John closes his eyes and makes a prayer.

‘Please, God, let me live.’

 

John was, over all, a good guy. He went to all his classes, payed his bills on time, and even volunteered at a local woman's shelter when he could. He was, however, human, and as such was susceptible to vices. Addiction ran through his family, he figured, and there was very little he and his sister could do combat genetics, right? -But where Harry had started to develop their father’s taste for alcohol, John had instead begun to gamble.

It was harmless, really, he’d tell himself. He only bet with the boys, never went over too much, and always paid his debts.

If only he’d followed those rules tonight.

“Pay up, you little shit.” The big guy- some big guy, they were all big guys- punched John right in the kidney. He fell to the ground, spitting blood from the earlier hits.

“I…I don’t-“

Another kick sent him sprawling again, head swimming and eyes blurry. Someone growled something, and then John felt a succession of hits all around his body, one especially violent one scrapping along his ear.

The only thought John could form was ‘Please, God, let me live.’

 

The sun is blinding. The air is thick with heat and sand- everywhere one breathes, the oppressive sense of hot reigns. The sizzle of air makes everything look hazy, makes the entire world look like a mirage, look fake and distant.

The bullets that whiz past him are too entirely real.

John can fire two, maybe three shots before he’s forced to seek cover again. He has his squad to the right, mostly, a couple behind him to his left. He reloads, ready to fire again-

suddenly a scream tears through his ears, and he’s crawling to the source before he can even realize he’s doing it.

Charles is down, clutching his stomach. There’s already blood seeping though- already sand covering some of it, already horrid, already painful and wrong so fucking terrible.

“Charlie, Charlie stay with me-“ John’s frantic, ripping fatigue and whipping the area, already had one hand in his pack, frantically searching for something that would even help-

A bullet whips past him, then another, and before John can even react he’s on fire.

It feels like fire, anyway- a fury of nerves screaming bloody murder in his shoulder, or maybe that’s really him screaming, or maybe it’s Charlie, or the insurgents, or the rest of the squad or maybe the fucking Queen is, John can’t tell.

He’s falling right into the sand, right into his damn shoulder, and the only thing John can even begin to think is ‘Please, God, let me live.’

 

John’s tied to a bloody chair.

Sarah is tied as well, and she’s this close to being killed because the Chinese Mafia thinks he’s Sherlock fucking Holmes, and he’s tied to a bloody chair. Sarah is going to be impaled by a circus trick, and then John’s going to die, and Sherlock is going to be utterly distraught because then he’d have to find a new flat mate. 

Harry will have to have a closed coffin, or at least halfway, because he doubt even Molly could clean up a speared body to be presentable. 

John’s tied to a bloody chair. John is about to watch someone he kind of liked, someone he was hoping to get off with, get skewed by an ancient weapon. He’s about to be brutally killed, and the only consolation he’ll likely have is that Sherlock would probably be able to use their murders to pinpoint the killers or something.

The only consolation he’ll have is that Sherlock will be alive.

John hears the head-woman count down, hears Sarah scream again, sobbing and pleading like there’s something John could even do, and he clenches his eyes shut. 

‘Please, God, let me live.’

 

He was on the way to get milk.

It’s always the bloody milk, isn’t it.

There isn’t even a lab to his neck, or a chloroform rag or anything. Just a calm man standing in front of him, another behind him holding a gun.

He’d gotten in the car. They didn’t even let him bring the milk.

-And now he’s bombs strapped to him, an ugly coat thrown over him in what John can only think of as a joke, and he’s still in his pajamas. He should be stupefied by laughter at this point.

He is stupefied by fear.

He’s pretty sure he’s in some sort of shock, as well, and sitting alone in a poolroom with a bomb strapped to you is not conductive to calming down. Having an earpiece shoved into your ears is not comforting. Knowing you may die if your flat mate doesn’t cooperate is just plain terrifying.

Static bursts through the earpiece, and John feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. Nothing’s said, of course, and John is near tears at the thought of what might be said, what will be said, when Sherlock arrives.

He takes as deep a breath as he possibly can.

“Please, God, let me live.”

 

 

-And one time it wasn’t.-

 

John looks shakily to Sherlock. His hands are trembling, both their hands are trembling, but it’s not a second until Sherlock is right there, ripping off the jacket and the bomb, throwing them as far as he could.

John makes a shaky joke about people talking, and Sherlock says something suitably witty back, he imagines. John doesn’t pay attention, can’t.

He’s just so fucking elated. John is alive, right now, when he should be dead, and Sherlock is fine, and everything is fine and great and they are alive-

Moriarty comes back in. Changed his mind, he says, and now they both have to die. There are markers trained on them again, and Sherlock has the gun trained on Moriarty, and John has his eyes trained on Sherlock.

One ardent plea is running through his head.

‘Please, God, let him live.’


End file.
